


Hurtsickle

by stateofintegrity



Category: Rush (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 23:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6774694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A handful of flowers help Alex and Geddy figure out their feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hurtsickle

As the wind rises over the fields, I pull my jacket tighter and huddle down behind the little stone wall that has been my writing space lately, though not by my choice. Since we’ve gotten together to lay down the tracks for _A Farewell to Kings_ , I’ve been in the unusual position of composing on my own. My eternal sidekick, King Lerxst, has been… distant. I wish I knew why. Then again, since he’s given me no inkling, maybe I _don’t_ want to know. There are some things, for all of our closeness, that we don’t talk about… and since Alex _isn’t_ talking, I can only presume that it’s one of those things – something romantic. Never mind not talking – there are some things I don’t even like to _think_ about. I wish I could ask him, but mine has never been a courage-driven heart.

            Battered worse by thoughts of my friend than I ever could be by the wind, I leave my shelter for the fields. It’s almost worth it for the flowers. Since I’ve been spending so much time out here, I’ve started to notice them. When I told Professor Pratt, he produced a book on the subject. Neil plans all of our working retreats; leave it to him to know everything about this place.  

            My favorite flowers are the cornflowers. Picking them, I’ve dyed my fingertips a pale blue (though not nearly so blue as other parts of my body!). Star thistle, they’re sometimes called, with petals as blue as smoke. I read the myth about them in Neil’s book: a beautiful youth transformed into a beautiful flower. It could be Alex’s flower, if only it were given an edging of gold, like the satin lining you see shining in roses.            

The cornflower has another name, too.

            Hurtsickle.

            That’s been the exact color of my best friend’s eyes: hurtsickle blue.

            Seeing so many of them waving and shimmering in the wind, I come up with a silly idea. And where a Lerxst is involved, a silly idea might really be for the best.

 

 

(Alex)

 

            Something is different when I come into my studio bedroom. Something is “off.” It’s enough to make me forget the woman I’m leading by the hand… but I was planning on doing that anyway, by morning. I must say something to her. “Wait,” maybe. But I don’t actually hear the words lift from my lips. The tone must speak for me, if not the actual words themselves, because she pauses in the doorway in a pose she contrives on the spot, striving to look beautiful and cool. I move past her, cautious as I nudge and bump up against this odd feeling… this sense of otherness.

            Whatever it is, it isn’t threatening, I think as I survey my changed space, looking for traces of whatever has invaded. If anything, it feels familiar, something that matches me. I frown. I’ve been all over the world, but there’s only one thing – one person – who matches me. Of course, he’s off limits – placed there by a whole host of practical things like our careers, our gender, and the disgust I imagine he’d feel if I ever told him that I want to take him in my arms, that I want to be held by him. And this… bringing this girl back here… it’s just a release. A way to be touched by anyone. If I close my eyes hard enough, sometimes I can imagine his hands. Sometimes I can work some kind of aural alchemy, make another voice into his saying my name. Heh. But no one can say it right. No one ever says “Ali.”

            Shaking off these gloomy thoughts, the knowledge that he’ll never, never be mine to touch, I survey the room once more, on the edge of inviting my companion in. That’s when I see the flowers. The words in the flowers. Joy-choked, I gently touch a pale petal. Dirk… Dirk, I miss you, too.

 

***

(Geddy)

 

            Hurtsickle has another common name: bachelor’s button. Maybe it’s my flower – not his. From my upstairs window I saw Alex and his date come inside. Maybe he’ll say the flowers on his bed are for her. They’re not rose petals, but I guess you could make love on a bed of cornflowers. Heh. I curl up under my covers, back resting against the headboard. I feel like my own mattress has been replaced by one made of thorns. I close my eyes but I can still see him. His beautiful hands are gathering up the flowers, tossing all of their delicate color into the wastebasket. I’m sure he doesn’t realize it, but he’s tossing my heart away too. But then, that it was a gift he never wanted… one he never realized he’d received.

            A clicking sound makes me turn my head; my eyes come open to see him placing a water-filled vase on the desk. The flowers – my flowers – are in his hands and he gently places them in the water.

            “Thank you.”

            I know my mouth is open. Of all the things I imagined, I didn’t think he’d bring my gift back to me. “You’re welcome.” The words are too formal for us, but he _is_. Welcome, that is. He’s always, always welcome to be where I am… even if his shining and his nearness make me half dizzy. Unaware of the changes me makes to my universe, he leans against the desk, looks to me. It’s an illusion, a shift of the twilight blue beyond the window, but I swear that those smoky blue petals shift toward him, toward all of his light.

            “It’s been a long time,” he murmurs, head lowered.

            “Hmmm?” My soul is snagged on all the loveliness of him and I hear his voice more as a mellow current of wine-gold sound than as words. The way he speaks… they should make a language just for him. It’s probably lunacy but I think that if I were ever unconscious Alex could call me back just by calling my name.

            “Since someone did something like that for me,” he fills in. “Something… nice.”

            ‘Nice’ feels like a placeholder and I wonder why he’s feeling his way. No wonderful and terrible secret has a hold on him! What should I say? Do I explain away the act? Have I made things awkward? But if I did, why did he come? Maybe I should just say some noncommittal thing… but he’s my best friend and I try to always give him the truth of me. “You deserve it.” He lifts his head and his eyes flash into mine, warming me with their improbable gold currents, their tropical blue tides. “For someone to do nice things for you. You’re the best person I know.”

            My voice seems to ring in the room, brave and clear. I like to think it’s there to be heard now – all that I’ve always felt for him – even though I haven’t really said anything at all. I’m wondering what else I can chance (I’ve succeeded with flowers, compliments!) when his head nuzzles into my neck, rests on the crook of my shoulder. I feel his hands – warm, huge. I’m probably not going to get this again, this long and impossible embrace, so I lose myself in holding back. I feel him shudder a little in my arms and murmur, “ ‘sokay, Ali.”

            He looks up and his eyes are gleaming with some light I can’t make sense of. “Dirk, would you let me stay here tonight? Can I… can I spend the night with you?”

 

 

(Alex)

 

            He doesn’t understand what I’m asking. I’ve stayed with him before, talking the darkness into day. You would think my touch would make it all clear but he’s just nodding yes, letting the two of us slide down beside each other. Now we’re lying side by side, turned toward each other, half tangled and I’m breathing too fast. I lean in, yearning, and hear his breath catch. I should go all the way, but his voice rises up like a quicksilver flame. “Alex… are you… are you going to _kiss_ me?”

            He says the word “kiss” like it’s something in another language, one of those sacred syllables that can only be spoken once in a hundred years. “Not if you don’t want me to.”

            There’s a strange sound; I think it’s his breath rattling inside of his throat. “I…do.”

            We both start at that.

            So that’s where we’re going.

            Maybe it’s been our destination from the start, from that day when I grabbed his hand and pulled him up by those lockers. I swallow. “Do you… do you really?”

            He nods, solemn, eyes huge.

            “We’ll have to tell everyone,” I murmur stupidly. I think my parents might even be glad. I know Pratt will be.

            “Tomorrow,” he urges, fingers coming up to grip mine. “I think tonight is just supposed to be for us.”

            I never believed there could be a time or a place for us and, realizing what’s happening at last, I beam at him and nod excitedly. He’s about to get closer still, to cross boundaries that both of us were holding intact when I say, “Wait?”

            Fear enters his face but I just smile to show him that nothing’s wrong. Standing, I grab for the bouquet he brought me, the silly flowers that made me come here and ask this forbidden thing. He tilts his head, wondering. I just tear off a few of the blossoms and scatter them on the bed sheets where they shine blue and silver.

            “Better,” he agrees as I climb into bed with him, ready to start our life together.

 

End!

            This is ridiculous.

            Men don’t give each other flowers.

            And even if he sees them, will he see the words I’ve written across his comforter? Will he know they’re from me? Could he hate me… over flowers? Standing back, I look at the flowering words and try to feel hopeful.

 

Miss You, Ali.


End file.
